SOLO: M (MINI ALBUM)
synopsis — miles has a life crisis because he never thought he was capable of being more than the ‘maknae’ of crescent. word count — 507.
silence sweeps the practice room with its deafening crescendo that comes in waves of fastened heart beats and sweat dropping by the bullets down the side of his temples. jawline, scraped by the beads of sweat that leaves a shiny residue, bleeding down the veins of his neck. throat, parched with numerous bottles lining the practice room mirror, all of which were now empty. hours spent slaving away in the room that vibrated with the invisible drive of the music that was crafted for his solo. and for a moment, the silence becomes too loud that he drops to his knees in exhaustion. the realisation hits, and it hits harder than he thought it would have. years, years spent mastering his craft but he finds that mastery was so far fetched that he should just find comfort in the mediocrity that was himself. he finds himself having given up somewhere in between, somewhere close enough that it saddens his soul to think about.
palms pressing against the flooring before him, as the strands fall in clumps of wet tangles barricading his vision. tired hues darting from the speakers back to the fingers that fidget before him, slightly relieved to find a moment to catch his breath. was this real? preparing for something that wasn’t a group project? something he truly wanted? something he had wanted to craft, a sense of himself interpreted in an art form that he understood and resonated with. something someone could find meaning in. shallow ambitions only turning more meaningful as he realises that this was his own. he’s more than just the maknae of crescent. he was miles. he felt like a fraud because this wasn’t him. this was just a projection of someone he wanted to be. the separation between his stage persona and the real him causing a scrimmage somewhere inside of him.
was he a fraud? projecting an image that was so far from the truth.
he drops himself to the floor, shoulder rolling himself up facing the ceiling on his back. he feels the strands dampen his forehead as eyes shut close, chest heaving shakily. he doesn’t deserve this, there are more people out there who hold more talent than he did. more people who deserved this opportunity, the recognition, the chance to shine. he was a jaded stone, edges smoothed out without purpose. but he has worked hard to be here, hasn’t he?
an almost confession spewing from his thoughts, reverie filled with nothing but the incessant prayers to be heard and the need to accepted. he writes of lavender, describing the one beacon of hope that lights his way, the scent of sweetness that radiates a glow of light mauve twisted with the shade of pastel orange. mixed messages and strange emotions that cascade through an already struggling mind, yet nothing but the calmness of chaos pricks at his reverie. a ball of oddity that lies on the precipice of self annihilation and preservation, though he can only do one.
what the hell is going on?